


which rendered all escape impossible

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blowjobs, Bondage, D/s if you squint really really hard???, Javert's Confused Boner, Javert's Confused Everything, M/M, Martingales, Roleplay ish, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Javert does not respond. He moves his hands behind his back without having to be asked, crossing his wrists wordlessly so that Valjean can wind the rope around them and tie it off with deft fingers. Then it is done. Javert is bent over slightly; he cannot quite straighten up to his full height, nor move too suddenly, else the rope will bite into the sensitive places between his legs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>He looks – the apprehension, at least, is gone from his posture, but it seems now Javert is waiting for something and Valjean cannot think of what it could be.</em></p><p> </p><p>Or: Javert’s extremely confused post-Seine boner, plus the martingale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	which rendered all escape impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/gifts).



Valjean is as gentle as he can be, given his equal lack of experience, is careful when he runs his hand down the straining curve of Javert’s prick, tolerates the bruising grip of Javert’s fingers on his shoulders. Yet Javert is tense even as Valjean strokes his cock slowly and gently, muffling his choked noises against Valjean’s chest; Valjean rubs the back of his neck and feels the tension corded there.

He does not relax, does not seem satisfied or relieved, and when Valjean kisses his throat he flinches. It is not expected – not when Valjean thinks on the agonized hunger in Javert’s expression just before this, when the thing that had built between them in the weeks since the night of the Seine had grown too large to ignore, when Javert had reached forward and kissed him with a desperate wanting – in fact Javert seems almost angry at where this has turned, on the verge of unleashing his full ire at any moment.

Valjean tries to soothe Javert with murmured words, careful touches, but Javert suffers his kisses only briefly before twisting away. “You infuriate me,” he mutters, though he still ruts into Valjean’s grasp, prick hard and leaking. “This should not –”

Valjean pulls back. “Do you still want this?”

“Yes. God. No. I do not know. Only –” Valjean runs his hand over Javert’s forehead and Javert shudders – bucks suddenly into Valjean’s hand and spends with a gasp almost of dismay, face contorting in what looks more like pain than pleasure.

Javert shies away from Valjean’s attempts to clean him, his temper flaring at last, “Valjean, get out, you do not need to stay, there is no need to do any of this – none at all –” a peculiar, twisted bitterness to his words, barely clipped just before the point of cruelty, and Valjean withdraws, not knowing what else to do.

 

He thinks that will be the end of it.

But after a day of avoiding each other’s eyes he brushes Javert’s hand – chaste and unintentional, but suddenly Javert has taken hold of his wrist and tugged him in for a kiss, and once again they have tumbled into a bedroom, a mess of heat and skin and grasping for relief.

“You bewilder me,” Javert says, breathless. He is hard, rocking against Valjean’s thigh. “It – you are infuriating, I do not understand –”

He bites Valjean’s mouth, and Valjean jerks back; he meets Javert’s eyes and sees fear there – though fear of what, Valjean cannot tell.

“What do you want?” he asks. Javert looks like an animal backed into a corner.

“I –” Javert swallows and runs his tongue over his lips. “I do not know.”

A brief pause, and then, “I have thought of the martingale,” he blurts out. “Would you want me like that? Bound and –”

It stirs nothing in Valjean – only the memory of Javert still haughty and certain, even in the expectation of his death – but if it is what will help – “If it is what you wish,” he says. He cannot tell what is in Javert’s expression, for Javert turns abruptly away before he can see, and paces to stand in the middle of the floor.

“Fetch a rope, then, Valjean,” he says, a touch of the old imperiousness in his voice.

Valjean heads to the broom closet. The rope coiled there is dusty and rough, thicker and less supple than the rope that had bound Javert at the barricades, perhaps – but it will do, and he returns, finding Javert still standing in the same position, facing away from him.

Javert turns a little when Valjean enters, but other than that stays motionless as Valjean moves to stand behind him. “I do not know why I want this,” he mutters. It is an admission of uncertainty, spoken with some reluctance.

Valjean thinks to rub the back of his neck, to give him some reassuring touch, but recalls how Javert had reacted to concern before – instead, he begins to bind him, trying to be neither too gentle nor too rough, looping the rope around his neck and knotting it off, then bringing the free ends down his front to pass them between his legs. Valjean can feel that Javert’s prick has softened, but he shivers when Valjean’s hand brushes between his legs, pulling the rope not quite taut but tight enough that Javert shifts uncomfortably.

“You do not need to explain,” Valjean says, though he does wonder what Javert gains from this – there are signs of arousal in the hitch of breath in Javert’s throat, the rising color in his cheeks, but his bearing still speaks of apprehension, diminished at least below the point of panic and lashing out.

Javert does not respond. He moves his hands behind his back without having to be asked, crossing his wrists wordlessly so that Valjean can wind the rope around them and tie it off with deft fingers. Then it is done. Javert is bent over slightly; he cannot quite straighten up to his full height, nor move too suddenly, else the rope will bite into the sensitive places between his legs.

He looks – the apprehension, at least, is gone from his posture, but it seems now Javert is waiting for something and Valjean cannot think of what it could be.

“Would you want your legs to be bound as well?” Valjean asks, after a long moment; Javert shakes his head.

He waits, and then gestures a little helplessly, though Javert’s head is bowed and he cannot see him. “I do not – tell me what to do next, Javert, if this is what you would want.”

Javert stiffens. Valjean can see his fingers move a little in his bonds, a futile, grasping motion that echoes the one Valjean had just made. “Is there nothing you would want?” he hears Javert say, aggravation evident in his voice, before turning to face Valjean, his movements awkward and hampered by the martingale.

His gaze has a hot, desperate defiance to it, a sort of confused pride that offsets the slump of his shoulders, the way his body hunches inward to – Valjean glances away, out of instinct. The folds of Javert’s trousers, bunched around the rope of the martingale, catch the shadows around the outline of his growing erection. He looks back. He cannot deny the truth of it. He cannot deny the hunger that –

“Do what you will,” Javert says.

Valjean reaches and cautiously takes hold of the rope a few hands’-widths below where it loops around Javert’s neck, giving it a short, experimental tug. Javert follows, stumbling forward, a faint noise escaping him, somewhere in between a gasp of pain and a moan of – Valjean can feel his face heating. The last time he had had Javert in such a position, this – any of this – had been the furthest thing from his mind.  

He lowers his hand and squeezes the bulge of Javert’s prick. Javert jerks back, gasping, rubbing against the rope nestled between his cock and his thigh at the same time, and Valjean shuts his eyes at the rush of heat through his body.

“God,” Javert mutters, “go on – do it –”

“Do what?” His own voice sounds strange in his ears, roughened, too-loud.

“Have you wanted nothing?” Javert jerks his head, lifting his chin, staring Valjean down. “Have your way with me – Valjean – take what you want, I deserve it.” His glance flits downwards to the fork of Valjean’s trousers; his tongue moves out to wet his lips in a seemingly unconscious gesture and Valjean is acutely aware of his own prick, the pulse of blood in it, how easy it would be to reach out and plant a hand on Javert’s shoulder and push him down to his knees. To yank on the martingale and force Javert to his tiptoes, to make him squirm and cry out in pain. To have Javert against the wall, bound and helpless. To make him better understand injustice, cruelty, hatred – barely a fraction, the barest part of what Valjean has known, what Javert has only just begun to realize.

The rope of the martingale is rough in his hand. He has Javert helpless in his grasp now. “Is that who you think I am?” he asks. His hand is still spread over the swell of Javert’s prick, hard and very warm through the cloth, and he presses, a little lighter this time, watching Javert’s mouth open, feeling Javert’s prick jump against his fingers.

Javert does not answer, only shuts his eyes, takes an unsteady breath, before opening his eyes again. “Surely you must have wished for something.” His voice is rough. “What do you want to do to me?”

Valjean gives his cock a quick caress, tracing his thumb over the outline of the head and feeling the growing damp spot there, and Javert lets out a tight gasp, hips stammering forward before stiffening and going still again. Valjean swallows. His hand tightens on the martingale, pulling Javert imperceptibly closer.

“I only ever wanted to show you mercy,” he says.

“ _No,_ ” Javert says, the word ripping from his throat. Valjean rubs at Javert’s cock again and Javert twists away, shuddering. “No, Valjean, do not be kind, not now, not like this –”

Javert’s motions have brought him into resistance with the martingale once more, the rope pulling taut; out of instinct, Valjean pulls back a little, and Javert gasps in pain and stumbles forward, almost careening into Valjean but stopping short. He is looking distinctly disheveled now, the rope rucking up his trousers, face coloring with shame and arousal.

“You ought to have killed me while you had the chance,” Javert says. He does not sound like he means it. He sounds like he is trying to convince himself of something. They are words like he might have said in the alley but now there is a different sort of intention behind them. “Take your revenge.”

“I do not want revenge.”

“Then what on earth –” Javert pulls back against the martingale again, rocking slightly against Valjean’s hand as he does so. “Punish me,” he grinds out. “I have erred. I see it now. Valjean, I cannot stand your kindness, do you hear me?”

Valjean hears, and knows: Javert cannot stand it, but he wants it. The look on Javert’s face is the one of a man confronted with rebuilding a city from rubble, and nowhere else to go but the old paths, though the ruins spread across them.

He loosens his grip, letting the martingale go slack, then tugs on it, very lightly. Javert sways forward and Valjean kisses him, brushing his lips across Javert’s jaw, then down his throat to just above the knot of the rope.

“This is not a punishment,” Valjean says against his skin. Javert lets out a low moan, despair threaded into arousal. It is confounding Valjean too, this act that should be gentle and loving, and yet he cannot deny that Javert’s insistence that it should be painful has – awakened something in him, such that he does not know where to turn.

He opens Javert’s flies one-handed, keeping his hold with the other on the martingale. The head of Javert’s prick rubs against the cloth of his trousers as Valjean draws it free, and Javert makes a strangled sound, high in his throat; his prick is thick and swollen, the tip dark and flushed and shiny, it must be very sensitive. Valjean curls his fingers around the weight of it. Fluid is seeping from the tip of Javert’s cock, and he traces his thumb over it, spreads the wetness over the head, along the ridge of the crown –

Javert’s resolve crumbles, his hips stuttering, thrusting into Valjean’s hand with as much abandon as the martingale will allow. Valjean looks up. Javert’s chin is raised, his throat exposed; he stares down into Valjean’s eyes and shudders, grimacing, as Valjean’s thumb slides over the head of his cock once more.

“Make it quick,” he grinds out.

Valjean tightens his grasp, sees Javert’s eyes close in an ecstasy that briefly overpowers the fury and despair.

He is not quick when he draws his hand down the length of Javert’s cock, taking in the feel of it, warm and heavy against his palm, and Javert moans, long and low, rocking forward into Valjean’s hand. Valjean does it again. Javert’s head falls forward, eyes squeezed shut, his lip curled and exposing clenched teeth; it is a rictus of agony, but when Valjean makes the next stroke quicker, and the next, it becomes ever more pained, harsh breaths tearing from Javert’s throat.

“Valjean, God, you have no – if this is mercy I will have none of it, I cannot, I –” He cuts off short, shoulders hunching, trembling, and Valjean stills his hand. In response Javert pushes his hips forward with a violence barely tempered by the martingale.

“I am close,” he mutters. “Would you have me beg?”

Valjean runs his hand over Javert’s prick again and feels him shiver. “You do not need to,” he says. “But there is no shame in wanting.”

Javert laughs, an awful sound; he has slumped forward, his forehead close to touching Valjean’s shoulder, and his breath stirs Valjean’s shirt. “What I want,” he says. “I want – all the things you are offering.” He does not say what they are; Valjean thinks Javert would not know whether to say them with denigration or with reverence, that it would confound him to speak of love. “You do this, I cannot stop you –” He cuts off short, shakes his head, runs his tongue over his lips. “I cannot stop you,” he says again. “You have me now and – God – what I want, you are giving, I cannot accept. You mock me with this.” The words tear forth from him. “I cannot be like you.”

“Is that what you believe?” Valjean moves his hand on Javert’s cock, provoking a gasp. He shuts his eyes to collect himself. He cannot deny any longer what the sight of Javert so shattered is doing to him. Letting go of the martingale, he lays his hand on Javert’s shoulder and leans forward to kiss him, less gentle and more insistent than before. “You are capable of it,” he says, unable to hide the rising desperation in his voice. If Javert wants pain with his exoneration after this it will not be for lack of understanding of tenderness; he will make sure of it. “If you might yet allow yourself –”

Javert is tense, quivering, under Valjean’s hand, but it is a tension less of nerves and more of a growing anticipation, a rising surge he can prevent no longer.

“God,” he chokes out, and comes, spilling over Valjean’s wrist, his head finally jerking back enough that Valjean can see his face, twisted with a kind of mixed anguish and wonder – and pleasure, too, enough to assure Valjean that this has not been wholly dissatisfactory.

Javert’s breathing slows, and Valjean continues to move his hand, unhurried, until Javert winces and twitches away. “Enough, enough,” he mutters, voice raspy, and Valjean drops his hand away.

A moment passes; something moves under Javert’s expression.

“I want to thank you, but I am not sure how,” he says. It looks like it pains him to be so honest, but he plows through. “What would you have from me?”

At least Javert does not speak of punishment, at least he does not speak of debt or duties. Still, the confusion in his eyes, less violent than before, but no less impenetrable – “There is no obligation,” Valjean says, and means it; what he wants is the knowledge that Javert understands his own freedom. Freedom, when he is still bound – “Let me untie you,” he says, and moves before Javert can react, undoing first the knot at Javert’s neck, then rounding Javert’s body to free his wrists. When it is done Valjean coils the rope and lets it drop to the floor.

Javert brings his hands around, slowly, and rubs at his wrists, then turns.

It seems that a new rope tangles his motions, for he drops to his knees with more clumsiness than can be accounted for by too long in a fixed position; something about him still speaks of refusal, an inability to accept truly – and his hands hesitate at the front of Valjean’s trousers, trail over the bulge there with a nervy uncertainty.

“I want,” he says. “Only – I –”

“You may,” says Valjean, mouth dry. He hopes that is Javert’s only obstacle, that the permission will be enough. He touches Javert’s jaw, cups it in his hand; Javert does not flinch away, but neither does he press into the touch; he stays still, and Valjean feels the movement of his throat as he swallows. He does not look much comforted.

“I want,” Javert says again. His fingers spread wide over the outline of Valjean’s prick, then he is undoing his flies, tugging his cock free, and lowering his head to cautiously mouth at the very tip of it –

It is an exaggerated gentleness, his tongue moving in a way likely not meant to be teasing but – Valjean shivers, and his fingers itch to bury themselves in Javert’s hair. Javert moves his mouth again, a sort of variation on a kiss, tongue and lips tentative on the head of Valjean’s cock, and it is maddening.

Then his lips part and he takes Valjean into his mouth, clumsy but warm and wet and soft, and it is enough, his hands grip Valjean’s thighs and he pulls himself forward, bobbing his head and Valjean cannot stop the sound that escapes him – clamps one hand over his mouth, but cannot tear the other from where it cups Javert’s jaw. He strokes Javert’s cheek, looks down and sees the furrow of concentration in his brow, lifts his hand and tries to smooth that out too.

It is not long before he comes, and afterwards Javert seems no less baffled by affection, by the concern Valjean voices over the marks on his wrists and throat, and the kiss he presses to Javert’s brow only serves to furrow it more – he would be a fool to think Javert might understand immediately, Valjean knows.

A man might change, he reflects; Javert has time, yet, and Valjean has hope aplenty for the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> "ha ha I'll participate in an exchange and try to challenge myself and branch out of my comfort zone!" I say, and do absolutely nothing of the sort. SO IT GOES


End file.
